Circle About The Moon
by IseultLaBelle
Summary: A teenage Chloe suffers a panic attack and can't face going into school. Ange worries it's all her fault. Oneshot, for Rowanne.


**I think this is the fastest I've ever turned a oneshot around, so I apologise sincerely if it's awful! Just before you start: **

**The title is taken from Catriona Montgomery's poem of the same name, which I think I've used before. It refers to a lunar halo, which is a light phenomenon that occurs when a storm is moving in. They are, however, really beautiful, and a symbol of good things to come in some cultures. **

**This one's for the lovely Rowanne. **

**As ever, reviews are hugely appreciated- and please do feel free to tell me if you don't like it too, constructive criticism is also useful! **

**-IseultLaBelle x **

**Aberdeen, November 2006**

"I'm not going in, Mum," Chloe whispers faintly, fidgets awkwardly with her hands, tense, trembles, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. "I _can't_, Mum, I can't, please don't make me go in…"

"Alright. It's alright, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to," Ange insists gently. "Well- okay, so that isn't totally true. I have to make you do things you don't want to sometimes, don't I? It's in the job description, I'd been a rubbish mum if I didn't push you to do things you didn't want to that I know will benefit you in the long-run sometimes, wouldn't I? But there's a line. Okay? I'm not going to make you go in if it's going to make you this distressed, am I? Hey? Your mental state matters more to me than anything else."

"Promise?" Chloe meets her mother's eyes uncertainly, pleads, scratches furiously at the backs of her hands.

"I promise. Hey, it's okay. Don't do that, sweetheart, please don't do that." Ange reaches across from the driver's seat to grasp Chloe's hands tightly in her own, stops her, realises she's slipped back onto autopilot, coping mechanism, truly isn't aware she's doing it. "You're going to make your knuckles bleed again, aren't you? Hey? I don't think you knew you were doing that, did you? I'd really prefer it if you didn't. Okay? I don't want you to hurt yourself. I love you. This is where the line is, alright? This is a perfect example. I'm not sending you into school if you're scratching yourself before you're even out the car, I'm not doing that to you. We need to sort all the rubbish going on in your head out first, don't we? And that's fine. We can do that. School isn't as important as you, is it? We can come up with a plan for you to do your Highers next year, when you're over this, if we need to. That's what I did, isn't it? For totally different reasons, but still. This is just as valid, I never want you to think it isn't. We can replace school, alright-? That's what I'm trying to say. But we can't replace you."

"But?"

"But what?"

"There's a but coming, isn't there?"

"Yep, there is. You know me too well, don't you?" Ange sighs, leans over, wraps her arms around Chloe's shoulders, rests her head against hers. "I've decided. Okay? I've decided if you can't face going into school right now and it's going to make you his anxious, I'm not going to make you. That's fine. But Miss Lewis needs to tell Mrs Fitzgerald I've tried everything to persuade you to go in, doesn't she, so we're going to have to stay here for a bit and look like I'm trying to talk you into it. Yeah? But I'm not going to make you go in if you don't want to. I promise. Not while you're feeling like this. So whatever I say to Miss Lewis when she comes over, I need you to know that I won't be caving, okay? I promise. So you just breathe, and keep calming down for me, and I'll take care of everything else. I'm your mum, that's my job, isn't it? Do we have a deal?"

Chloe nods silently, curls into her mother's side. "I'm sorry…"

"No, no, no, no, no, Chloe, you don't have to apologise. I don't _want_you to apologise for this, alright? Not ever."

"You're going to be late for work, though," Chloe whispers. "You're probably already late for work…"

"Let me worry about that."

"You mean you're going to be in trouble?"

"No, I mean let me explain to them why I'm running late this morning. They'll understand. We've been through this before, haven't we? It's a YAU, Chloe, they're more than familiar with anxiety. Okay? It'll be fine. It's always been fine before, hasn't it? You've got nothing to worry about, neither of us have. Absolutely nothing. Keep breathing for me, lovely girl."

"I _am _breathing."

"I know. I know, but you're not quite as convincing as you were a few minutes ago, are you? Come on. You can do it. I know you can do it, Chloe, because you're brilliant, and you're brave, and you're going to be just fine. Okay? I promise. Just keep breathing for me, nice and slow."

"You usually say normal."

That just about sums it all up, Ange sighs to herself hopelessly.

They've gone through this cycle so many times at this point that Chloe has started to pick up on subtle changes from her usual go-to style when it comes to coaching her through her panic attacks; if that doesn't just epitomise this whole awful situation, she doesn't know what does.

How did she ever let things get this bad, this desperate, this horribly out of control?

"I know," she tells her daughter. "I know. But I've tried telling you to breathe normally, and you're responding like you think 'normal' means a million miles an hour. I'm going for a different approach. I think this has just been a particularly bad one, hasn't it? And that's fine. That's why I'm not making you go into school if you're sure you can't face it. Alright? I'll go and speak to Miss Lewis in a minute, you can stay here. Yeah? I'll leave you the car keys, you can play your awful music to your heart's content…"

"My music isn't awful. And I don't have any with me, anyway."

"Umm, yes you do, I've still got the new Julie Fowlis CD you talked me into buying you the other day in the CD player. And if you put that on while you're waiting for me, I can tell Miss Lewis you're getting some Gaelic listening practice in already before I've even picked up your homework. It's a total no-brainer. Come on, sweetheart, look at me. That's it, just keep looking right at me. Good girl. I'm sorry, was that me? I didn't mean to make it worse, Chloe, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it, sweetheart, not if you don't want to. I promise we don't. Come on. Forget about school, forget about everything else, alright? None of that matters. Just keep breathing for me. You've got this, Chloe. Everything's fine. I'm going to fix everything, alright? You'll see. Just try and take some proper breaths in for me, are you feeling light-headed?"

Chloe shudders in her arms, blinks, nods as her breathing continues to come in short, sharp gasps, a vast improvement on her condition just a few moments ago, and yet still far from back under control.

Ange has lost count of the number of panic attacks she's witnessed Chloe endure by now, three years in.

And yet still there's no doubt in her mind from her daughter's reactions, her expressions, the way even as she struggles to regain control of her breathing she'll still scratch away at her skin until it's bleeding and raw if someone doesn't step in to stop her, that Chloe still finds these episodes just as distressing as she did back when they first started, if not more so.

"Mum," Chloe whispers weakly. "Mum…"

"I'm here, sweetheart, it's alright. So you are feeling light-headed? Yeah? I thought you were. That's okay. It's just because you're not breathing in properly, are you, you're rushing and you're working yourself up even more. Breathe in for three for me. That's it. And hold it? Hold it, hold it, keep holding it. Good girl. And breathe out slowly. There you go, you've got this. You're doing so well, Chloe. You're doing so, so well, I'm so proud of you. That's it. That's it, Chloe, you're getting there. Just keep breathing like that for me and it will pass, okay? I promise. I'm here, I've got you, you're fine. You're fine. You're just hyperventilating, but if you keep taking nice deep breaths you'll start to feel better in a minute. Okay? You're fine. Everything will seem better in a minute, you'll see. Good girl. You're doing brilliantly, Chloe. You really are. You're amazing. I'm so proud of how you deal with these."

"I bet… all the p… panic disorder p… patients… love you… on the… YAU." Chloe's voice trembles as she tries to force out the words, still shaking a little, yes, but at least she's breathing.

The end is in sight, Ange tells herself.

It's almost over.

This time, at least.

"Of course they do. I've… well, I've had a lot of practice, haven't I?" She hugs her daughter tightly, suddenly never wants to let her go again. "And I've done a lot of research… I know what works. I hope I know what works, anyway; if I'm getting it wrong, I want you to tell me, sweetheart…"

"Too much."

"Hmm?" Ange frowns, confused at first by her daughter's sudden interruption.

"You've…" Chloe tangles her fingers in Ange's hair the way she used to when she was tiny, closes her eyes, pulls Ange's arm around her shoulders, childlike, still firmly in the grasps of anxiety and fear and panic and god only knows what else, because Ange still isn't satisfied with the CAMHS report that finally came through last month, has made absolutely fuck all difference to her daughter's ability to cope with school so far. "You've had… too m-much… practice… I'm sorry…"

"No. No, no, no, no, no, Chloe, you don't have to apologise. Okay? You've got nothing to apologise for, have you? Hey? None of this is your fault, sweetheart. None of it."

It's her fault, Ange contemplates furiously, runs her fingers through Chloe's hair, hastily brushed back into a ponytail before they left for school mid beginnings of a panic attack, shaky, rough, slightly lopsided.

It's all her fault.

If she weren't such a terrible mother, if only she hadn't told Chloe the truth of how she was conceived when she was only fourteen, still a baby, really, far too young, then maybe her mental health wouldn't have taken the awful, rapid decline it has over the last three years. Maybe the panic attacks and the self-doubt and the separation anxiety and generalised anxiety and the self-harming and the issues around food they still haven't reached an official diagnosis for would have stayed away if only she hadn't told Chloe the truth, if only she'd planned it all long ago, come up with an alternative story to tell her that wouldn't have led to her feeling as though she needs to tear herself apart, as though she deserves to suffer.

It's all her fault.

"I do, though," Chloe says quietly. "I do, Mum. You've had a ton of practice dealing with panic attacks because I can't…"

"Hey. I know. And I'm your mum, sweetheart."

"It's your job to look after me?"

There's something about the way she says it. There's… Ange can't quite explain it.

There's just something in Chloe's tone, something about the way her voice waivers, her sudden inability to meet her mother's eyes that causes Ange to worry about her all over again.

It's all her fault.

She's sure it is.

She didn't emphasise strongly enough when she told Chloe about her… about the man who fathered her- the sperm donor, to all intents and purposes- that she loves her with everything she has.

That she's never, ever looked at Chloe and been reminded of, him. Not once.

That she is and will always be the most important thing in her life, that there's not been a single moment over the last seventeen years in which she hasn't felt stupidly, ridiculously lucky that the universe gave her Chloe, her beautiful little girl who turned her life around, taught her how to love again, completed her, warmed her heart in a way she hadn't even known was possible, before she became her mother.

She's not… contaminated, or whatever Chloe thinks.

She's… precious.

She doesn't know how else to put it into words.

Ange sees her daughter and the night she was conceived, the man who raped her, as completely separate, as far apart as it's physically possible for anything to be.

She truly, truly does.

She's never felt anything but love and adoration and protective maternal instinct and pride when it comes to Chloe.

Never.

But she worries she didn't make that clear enough, and now the moment has passed, far too awkward and uncomfortable for them both to bring it all up again.

"No. Well, yes, that's a part of it. But that wasn't what I meant. I don't just look after you because I'm your mum and I have to, sweetheart, I look after you because I want to. Because I love you. Okay? I can't imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn't had you. You're my lovely daughter, and I wouldn't change you for anything. None of it. Well, I'd change that you're having to go through this if I could, but I can't. And we're going to fix it, alright? Together." She squeezes her daughter's hands absentmindedly, promises herself she'll resume her medical journal research into panic disorder when she gets home tonight, once Chloe is asleep. "So we'll give up on today, I'll go and have a word with Miss Lewis and find out what you can be getting on with today, and then we'll go into my work and set you up on the YAU, okay? How does that sound?"

"I don't need the YAU."

"Umm, I'm the doctor. That's my decision."

"I can just work in your office."

"Yes, you could. But you've just had a severe panic attack, haven't you, so there's every reason to admit you, if there's a spare bed. You can get on with your homework on the ward and I can keep an eye on you, that sounds like a much better idea, don't you think?"

"Mum?"

"Hmm?"

"I…" Chloe glances back down at the floor again, ashamed. "It's… it's worse today because I don't want to leave you. And I… I don't know why."

"Come here. All the more reason to go with my plan instead of yours, then. Yeah? I'm always coming back, Chloe," Ange whispers, heart breaking. "You know that, right? I know you know it rationally, I know this isn't rational, but you know what I mean? Whatever… whatever your brain is trying to tell you, you don't listen. You promise. I love you. You're _my_baby. Okay? You're… you're mine, and nothing will ever change that. I wouldn't be without you, not for anything. I don't care how I had you, alright? That doesn't matter. All that matters is we have each other. I'm always, always going to be here for you, alright? Even if I can't always be there when you get home from school, or when you leave, I'm always coming back."

Chloe pauses, wipes furiously at her eyes. "Love you too, Mum."

"I love you more. Come on, then, are you going to put your awful music on, and then I'll just leave you for a minute while I go and speak to Miss Lewis? Good girl. I'm coming right back. And then we'll get you set up with your homework and a SATS machine in YAU, and we'll try again tomorrow. Does that sound okay?"

Chloe nods. "Mum?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I suture an orange again?"

"You can do whatever you want, my sweet girl. Whatever you want. Once you've done your school work, anyway. Although I think you've mastered oranges now. I'm sure we can find you something more exciting."

"Like an actual patient?"

"Don't push it. It's going to get better, Chloe," Ange promises, turns on the CD player, hands the car keys over to her daughter. "I know it doesn't feel like it now, but it's all going to get better. You'll see. You just need to be brave for a little while longer."


End file.
